BILL

Bill literally pussyfooted into my life at a crucial juncture. My two children were in the most difficult (for me) teenage phase where they found fighting each other a more exciting vocation than trying to determine what they wanted to be in their lives and how they would reach there.  My husband was going through his middle age blues and I was beginning to see red! I was slipping, careening, drunk driving, skidding my way into menopause. We were all shouting at each other and the world at large, sitting around in miserable sulks and being completely irrational. Life was a jumble of several jigsaw, crossword, Sudoku…puzzles I could not unravel. Hey! Why was I doing the unravelling in any case?! The whole ‘family’ enterprise was in nosedive.

“All we needed now was a black Persian, doll-face, little, arrogant cat to bring down the house of cards!” That is what I thought when I first set my eyes on him.

He came home on unwavering insistence of my daughter Seemaab, against much opposition from others. Murad, my husband had no place for animals in his life. He barely tolerated my uncontrolled love for them. Ironically, it was my son Shehryaar who negotiated and acquired this priceless asset as a favour to his elder sister, which he hoped to encash upon some time in future. Meanwhile he could let her feel the burden of his great magnanimity on her frail shoulders every day.

We called him Bill. His namesake was Bill Clinton, who I found very attractive and who had just visited Hyderabad, the first president of USA to do so – or of any country for that matter, I thought. It was also short for ‘billi’, cat in Urdu. I secretly associated his name with mine, Bilkhees. It was like sharing some celebrity’s limelight by being born on the same day. Why Bill could not be seen or even imagined as a kitten, I don’t know. He was perhaps a complete person from the beginning. He certainly had celebrity attitude. We all kind of felt a little inadequate in his presence and quickly conceded the Alpha-male position to him.

Bill never needed toilet training. The day he came home, we had his basket by the bathroom door in Seemaab’s room. He promptly went in, gently shifted the cover of the shower run-off drain and eased himself in it very neatly. No mess, no smell. Seemaab and I looked at each other in wonder, almost expecting him to flush afterwards as well. Bill was all of four weeks old and refused to drink the baby formula that we prepared for him. His mouth was so tiny that he could not suck from a bottle. I tried a disposable syringe. The milk just wet his fur as it trickled out of his mouth. I had to give him a bath and blow-dry his long fur to keep him from catching pneumonia after every failed attempt at feeding him. Forty eight hours later, I sent him back to his mother to be kept there until he was old enough to feed on his own. But the old lady, who had sold Bill to us, shut the door in Shehryaar’s face. She was afraid the money she collected would have to be returned if the kitten died. Bill was back like a baaaad bet!

I did the ritual shouting at both the kids. That was not going to solve the problem, though. I tried a medicine dropper. No go. Bill was dying of starvation and my daughter and I were both sobbing with frustration. As a last ditch effort I tried cotton wool dipped in buffalo milk. He drank a few drops and opened his eyes. Then he licked my little finger. I remembered the movie ‘Born Free’ where the lion cubs were fed in that fashion! Eureka! In two weeks, I tried a small bowl. Bill turned away. Another week and it was still the same. Then, by some freak chance I discovered that Bill would feed from a bowl, provided it was china and not steel!!! It completely freaked me out! What a bloody snob! What highbrow taste! After that day, Bill had his own china plate and bowl and even soupspoon to ladle out his cat-food!!

Bill’s snobbery had an unforeseen advantage. He never stole food like other cats. He waited to be served and refused to eat if anyone spoke at his mealtimes! This was only a precursor of things to come. He not only chose who would have the privilege to serve each of his three meals, but also the etiquette required of the server. By the age of three months, he went on to set the rules by which our anarchic household would run – quietly, but firmly. There was a social structure in place and each member had a position in the hierarchy, assigned to him or her by Bill! Shehryaar hated it, others simply fell in line, and I was delighted. Bill was an astute politician and such unparalleled organisational skill seemed wasted on a small household. He could have been a prime minister, if he had not been a cat.

Bill tamed the most powerful and the least pliable first: Murad, my husband and undisputed head of the household. In all the twenty two years of marriage, I can count on my fingers, the evenings when Murad had come home before midnight. At first it was a sore point in our relationship; then I resigned myself to permanently lonesome evenings as my take away from the marriage. My evenings became more a walk in the park, an early dinner and retiring to bed by 8 pm. And 18 year old Shehryaar, quickly started to follow in his father’s footsteps. They both woke up late as a consequence. Bill quite disapproved of them both. He set half past eleven as their curfew hour. He patiently waited in the hall, facing the front door. At 11:25 pm, he started to come upstairs to wake me up, insisting on kissing my sleepy nose, until I woke up. He proceeded to urge me go to the front door, running silently up and down the stairs, refusing to let me go back to bed. I called them and harangued them for disturbing my sleep and upsetting Bill by not being home in time. They were defiant for a week at best. Bill kept me awake until they returned each night. It naturally made me grouchy and I kept calling them to deliver me from the torture. They fell in line.

There was yet another ritual to be performed by Murad alone, in the middle of the night, at that. As soon as he entered the house, Bill ran ahead and showed him his bowl. It was Murad’s turn to serve him cat food. He had to just leave his briefcase by the table and check first to see that the china bowl was clean (Bill couldn’t stand dirty plates), then ladle in a miniscule quantity of cat food for the ritual. Bill would walk up and gingerly taste it, and slowly pick the tiniest of morsels, looking back at Murad every so often. Murad was not to sit down or even talk to me for the length of time that Bill ate. If Bill felt Murad was not paying due attention to him or the ritual, he would turn his back on the food and sit down, frowning up at Murad in a ‘let-me-know-when-you-are-ready-for-it’ look. Ha ha ha! I would silently laugh at Murad’s kowtowing to a cat!

Bill set 9 pm as the curfew hour for Seemaab. She protested, called him a sexist, and propounded the principle of being fair and just. Bill merely flicked one ear and remained passively firm.  She told him she might be late when she went out with friends once a week. He refused to grant her any extension. When she returned later than curfew time, she found him sulking on her bedside table. The moment she put her head on the pillow to sleep, he got up and marched across her face to one side and back again. Seemaab would let out a howl of outrage, loud enough to wake up the neighbours. Bill simply looked down at her with a frown of contempt. Seemaab told her friends; she believed Bill was actually an evil witch in disguise. She almost believed it. It was her duty to brush his long coat twice a day, or it would sweep the floor and get dirty. But bill was finicky about personal hygiene. He stayed on beds or sofas most of the time and only walked on the floor after the cleaning lady had done her job late in the morning under his strict supervision. He sniffed and pointed at left-out patches during mopping. Seemaab bought his cat food and vitamins and took care of him in general. He only rarely rewarded her with a wet-nose-kiss. Most kisses were in my account.

Every morning, 9:30 was wakeup call service provided to Shehryaar alone. Bill jumped onto his bed and stretched his neck until his whiskers tickled Sheri’s nose. Sheri violently waved his hand to sweep him off the bed but Bill nimbly leapt out of his range, and was back in position pronto. Sheri covered his head with the duvet. Bill got under it as well. Sheri screamed. Bill remained silent. Sheri cursed him, left the bed and locked himself in the bathroom. Bill stretched himself across Sheri’s bed and waited patiently for Sheri to get ready and leave for college. Sheri would shout in disgust, “What kind of household is this, that a cat runs it?! A cat is the head of our family! Wah!” Bill remained unfazed.

Bill had an incurably romantic soul in his black-cat body. He lay stretched over the corner of the balcony parapet wall at sunset, letting the gentle breeze stir his long fur, his face turned towards the breeze. One evening I found him fast asleep on my chest of drawers, curled around the blue china vase of tuberoses. He would stir now and then; raise his nose in the direction of the flowers and sniff, a look of divine joy sweeping over his usually frowning countenance. This was always the case when I brought a bouquet of Rajnigandha during the monsoon months. I had not encountered such marked preference for a fragrance in any other animal. There were many birds coming to the birdbath on the terrace. Although, Bill watched them for hours from the shadows behind the door, he never once attacked or caught a bird. He just was not predatory. ‘What a rare self-assurance!’ I thought. We cannot find it in a human being these days, leave alone a cat. Being predatory is considered an indication of strength now. Bill was perhaps old-world.

My relationship with Bill was the most gentle, tender and fine relationship of my life. He was exceptionally caring with me. He woke me up at an ungodly 4:30am with his wet-nose-kisses. If my face was covered with the quilt, he lifted it carefully with his paw, to kiss my face. When I opened my eyes every morning, it was to a black furry face with two dark eyes, the irises dilated completely, looking into my eyes with deep love. Never before, or since have I been so sure of so much love. Once Bill saw that I was awake, he jumped off the bed to lead me out of the room. It was then, that Bill was at his most loveable. He paced around me, making sounds like “hm….hm…” just like we do when we are listening to someone relate a story and we want them to continue. He wanted to listen to me talk! This was a rare experience in my life just then. No one had the time or inclination to listen to me. And here I was, talking to Bill about literature and politics and current affairs and society and loneliness and love and how closely related they were. Bill kept up the “hm…hm” bit. If I stopped anytime, wondering how idiotic I would seem to anyone who witnessed me talking serious intellectual stuff with a cat, he prompted me on. After half an hour of relaxed conversation, (I somehow always knew what Bill thought of politics, literature or social interaction), I generally got dressed and put on sneakers to go for my morning walk, talking to him all the while. He saw me to the door and settled down on the living room step just inside the front door, to wait for me. I walked in the semi-darkness, feeling happy and at peace, a loving black face and two dark eyes following me in my head. On my return, I knelt down and he raised himself, placing two soft paws on my knee to kiss my cheek. He made my day! Every day!

I fell ill of Chikungunia when Bill was two years old. He lay stretched next to me in bed, watching over me anxiously at my smallest moan or movement. For the first two days he starved, loathe to leaving my side. Then, Seemab started to bring his food upstairs. Even Murad started to carry on his midnight ritual feeding by my bedside. One day, when life seemed too painful, I sat in bed with tears running down my cheeks in despair. Bill come in, climbed onto the pillows next to me, stood on his hind legs, placed his front paws on my shoulders and licked my tears. That day remained forever engraved in my soul.

Now, several years later, Bill is no more, but he still comes to lick my tears when the going gets tough.

Right now Bill is insisting on kissing my nose.

14/4/2005

Two stray dogs attacked Bill at midnight when he went out as G came in. he is badly mauled and dragging one leg. I don’t want to record the several details, because it is too painful. Don’t know if he will survive. M devastated.

15/4/2005 5:59pm.

Bill is sleeping. Seems worse.

19/4/2005

Took Bill to the vet for surgery. Was very panicky.

20/4/2005 6:15am

I was ready to walk at 5:30. But Bill wanted to sit outside at the front door. So I carried him downstairs & am sitting with him.

26/4/2005 10; 59am

Bill is appears sick and I spent most of the day in the hospital with him. Took him to remove the sutures. Am shaky about him

29/4/2005

I spent almost all day up to 7pm at the hospital with Bill. He is in pain and very sick. Did not get an auto back in the evening. So I carried him in my arms and walked back almost all the way, trying not to cry at his quietly resting silky, soft body in my arms. I know inside that he is not going to live. Does it hurt!

30/4/2005 7:23am

Bill is too sick to leave alone for any time. E had sore throat and fever too.

30/4/2005 5:34pm

I didn’t rest at all. Been looking after E & Bill. I think Bill is dying. I only hope it is not too painful and prolonged.

This was the longest night in many years. The most painful as well. I sat by Bill all night, caressing his silky head, telling him I was there, telling him how much I loved him, crying, sobbing, praying all the time. What a tremendous wrench it was when he finally meowed before he died. I watched his death throes in silent agony. It was just before 3am. I woke up G when I couldn’t stand it. Bill was gone. I cried hard all night, desperately. I want him back. He is my only close companion, a very strong presence around the house. How will I wake up every morning if he won’t kiss my nose? Who can I talk to all day? But most of all I could not bear the thought of the tiny soft Bill silently suffer such agony. If God existed, he could not have caused such unnecessary pain to so helpless a creature. My beautiful Bill I laid to rest in the corner of the garden in the new house.]

1/5/2005 4:58am

Good morning. How is Bill?

1/5/2005 5:00am

Good morning. Bill is no more. He passed away just before 3 o’clock.

1/5/2005 5:05am

O God, I am so sorry.

1/5/2005 6:52am

Maybe Bill knew that you were leaving soon and did not want to be left alone. He wanted you around when the time came.

1/5/2005 6:55am

You were around to share his pain. But I know you will feel so lost in his absence.

1/5/2005 7:36am

His spirit was so indomitable in such a soft little body. He made us all do his bidding. I have lost my brave companion.

1/5/2005 5:44pm

How you doing? Did you get any sleep?

1/5/2005 5:46pm

No. I keep fighting sleep to see where Bill is, before it strikes me that he is gone. Am so empty.

1/5/2005 5:50pm

Who all are with you?

1/5/2005 5:51pm

None.

1/5/2005 7:50pm

The most heart wrenching moment was to come from outside and not find Bill stretched on the landing, waiting for me.

1/5/2005 8:36pm

I have cried a lot. Desperately. Last night was a very long night and it is night again.

2/5/2005 9:49am

There is no space in this house that is not related to Bill. And no one who comes in and does not ask for him. What a presence he still is!